Archive for October, 2011

AKA, the scene at Trader Joes at 10pm. Seriously. I’m always racing in there at like 9:45pm, 15 minutes before closing time, because that’s how I roll. Or, more specifically, that’s how I roll when I work full time, help kids with homework and dinner and bed, and/or go to classes and/or the gym during the week.

The weird thing about Trader Joe’s at that hour is that there are, like, tons of hot chicks strolling around doing their shopping. But the guys – they all looked kind of drunk, or “off.” What’s up with that?

SO – my advice to you, young bucks who read my blog, is: get thyself to a Trader Joe’s, late night, and meet your destiny! Or at least your next possible girlfriend.

Don’t worry, ladies, I haven’t forgotten about you. Yes, I know plenty of my readers already are married with kids, but even you have single friends who need sage advice, right? Tell those sexy singles to – #1: get OUT of Trader Joe’s at 10pm (too much competition!), and #2: get IN to an Apple store during normal business hours! (Preferably the one in the Beverly Centre, Los Angeles.)

Seriously – I went there the other day with an iPhone emergency, and I was SHOCKED by how many cute boys were milling around. Some worked there, some were shopping… what a find!! Sure, there were some hot chicks at the Genius bar too, but ladies, I’m telling you, you will be way outnumbered at the Apple Store.

So get out there, drop your iPhone into a toilet, and get thee a new boyfriend!

Yo, Bravo Network? You should so give me my own reality show.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

I was going to say something snarky about how she'd never think to send her clients to find a girl at Trader Joe's, but I got too distracted by her enormous breasts to remember what I wanted to say..

Obviously this topic could take up as much room as an encyclopedia, so let me just address one or two tiny yet oh so irritating (albeit cute, in a gross way) differences in life once kids appear on the scene.

1. Boogers.

Found one today after I stepped out of the shower, slimed across my big toe. Apparently, one of my little whippersnappers had found my clean towel that had been hanging from the bathroom door a more appealing home for his/her booger than a tissue. And I, unwittingly, had swiped said booger across my toe during the habitual process of drying myself as I stepped out of the shower.

At least it was just my toe.

2. Pee pee.

It’s one thing to clean it off the floor after a kid has an “accident” (though that too runs my patience thin when it’s the third time that day and of a consecutive run of over one week of said “accidents”)… But it’s quite another thing to plop innocently down on the porcelain throne, our toilet, ready to do my business… only to feel that oh so unwelcome slippery wetness attach itself to my under-thigh. Someone’s pee pee.
Was it my son, who perpetually “forgets” to lift the seat to pee? Was it my daughter, who likes to slide forward on the seat in order to grab the toilet paper & wipe herself, smearing pee pee on the seat in the process?

It occurs to me I need to buy those commercial seat covers for my own damn bathroom. Because as bad as it is for me, I’m still their mom, they came out of me after peeing inside my stomach for 9 months, so after all, what harm’s a little of their pee pee going to really do to the back of my leg?

Nicknames. Aren’t they just adorable? Except to every single person who hears them, often including the object of said nickname.

Case in point. I have dear, dear friends whom I love dearly. Did I mention we are quite close? And yet… I find it disconcerting to say the least when He calls Her “Snuggles.” I mean, come on. ‘Honey,’ I get. ‘Sweetie’ – adorable! ‘Baby’ – hey, we’re still cool.

But – “Snuggles?” SNUGGLES????

Gag me, gentle readers, with a spoon.

On the other hand, I am the WORST with nicknames when it comes to my own kids. The. Worst. If I were my kid, I might actually tape my own mouth until I promised (using sign language) never to utter such nonsensical crap nicknames again.

Lucky for me I’m not my own kid.

Because I love my nicknames! (The ones I give to my kids.) I love how they roll off my tongue. Yehuda, for example – when he was about two months old, was “Baby Googles.” Or, just “Googles,” to make things easy. He stayed ‘Googles’ until he was about one and a half, at which point I had to segue into the much more boring but still passable “Yehuda Patoodah.” Or, alternatively, “Yehudie Patootie.”

Rhyming is key. For example, Racheli is, more often than not, “Racheli Belly.” Alternatively, she is “Cheli Baneli.” You get the idea. This habit I blame squarely on my mother, whose nickname for me as a child was the oh-so-succinct (not) “Shani Boppers She’s a Floppers Do-Do-Do-Do.”

My 2 yr old Esther, on the other hand, is usually “Reekity Peek.” If you must know, that comes from “Estherika Pika.” Obvi. Or… sometimes she is “Baby D.” Which, nostalgically, was the nickname I gave my little sister Daily (yes, of the Pilly fame) when she was a baby. Actually, it’s not so much nostalgia as that part in every parent’s brain that takes all the babies they’ve ever had and melds them into one person who could have any one of the kids’ names at any given time.

“Yehuda! Racheli! I mean, ESTHER! Come here!”

Yes, gentle readers, it has happened. I’ve become my mother. I always wondered how it was possible that Mom couldn’t ever keep the three of our names straight.

Thanks, God, for “showing” me how it is possible. Instead of just “telling” me. God is so smart.

But back to nicknames: “Baby D” also happens to stand for my other nickname for Esther, which is “Baby Diggles.” Which comes from “Diggles and Doggles,” which is the expression I use when I’m playing with her and I have a hard time picking up something heavy (like her – she’s gigantic).

Sometimes I give it a little Hebrew flavor, and I’m like, “Diggles v’doggles,” the “v’” in Hebrew meaning “and.”

My little sister Daily is getting married in less than a month! To a great guy with a super cool name (Phineas). (And yes, her name really is Daily. I used to sing songs to her when she was a toddler that had the word “daily” in them and tell her they were all written for her.)

But Daily harbors a dark, dark secret. Or at least she harbored a dark, dark secret, until she moved in with Phin, and by then it was too late for Phin to turn back – he had already permanently invited her into his life.

No, I’m not talking about a secret illness, a hidden bastard child, or a Black Widow track record. I’m talking about something much, much more sordid.

I’m talking about Pilly.

Wait – sorry – did I say “sordid?” I mean soiled. Because Pilly – Daily’s security pillow from babyhood that she has never given up, never re-covered, practically never washed, and yet still sleeps on every single night – is disgusting.

Phin won’t let Pilly touch his skin, but how can he really know if Daily is or isn’t rubbing Pilly up against him at night while he sleeps, as she tries to get comfortable? He can’t. Sorry Phin – guess your nights of restful sleep are over, eh?

Now me – I threw out my Gee Gee long ago. Duh, Gee Gee was the name of my blankie. Or – wait! – was he thrown away by my mom while I was away at summer camp, unaware?! Mother! I’ll never let you get away with taking my Gee Gee! Never!!!!

On a grosser note, my dad insists his wife, my stepmother, is his security blanket.

TMI, dad!

(Ok, I do see the irony in accusing my dad of TMI whilst writing a self-exposing memoir-ish blog three+ days out of every week. But still.)

My 5 year old daughter had a “lovey” – a security animal who she clutched in her tiny palm from as early as I can remember. Butterfly. (The lovey’s name. Also, her species.) Then one day while on a walk with our nanny, Butterfly went missing, never to be returned.

The truth is, Racheli was fine without Butterfly. She missed her, she mentioned her, but she slept just fine without her. But maybe it was my own nostalgia for Gee Gee. Or maybe it was my guilt from abruptly firing our last nanny who worked for us the first four years of Racheli’s life, and who was like a second mommy to Racheli, then – poof! – gone for good.

Whatever the reason, I encouraged Racheli to bring a soft baby blanket with us on a recent family vacation where my brother-in-law Osbel would be joining us. Osbel is an incredible artist, craftsman, and most importantly, costume designer. He could sew Racheli a new Butterfly.

Butter(2.0) looks nothing like Butterfly – he is blue (she was pink and yellow), he is giant (she was smaller), he has two eyes and no other adornments (she had a big smile and stripes across her belly).

And yet…

The effect was immediate. Butter(2.0) was adopted without a second glance and now owns the coveted spot inside Racheli’s sleeping palm.

Oh yes, my friends, I’m going there. Because the other day – when one my five year old daughter let one fly – and then burst out laughing – it occurred to me, farts aren’t just funny to teenage boys.

They’re funny to everyone.

Except, arguably, to the people trapped in the same room with someone else’s fart.

If only I had such a good sense of humor as a young girl. Specifically, at age twelve. Because, it was at age twelve that- as I lay in the same bed as my best friend and her boyfriend (NO we were not NAKED – we were watching Strange Brew, and she didn’t have a couch) – when I let fly one of the loudest, most embarrassing farts of my life.

Embarrassing because, (well, duh, I was a twelve year old girl, but also), I was lying there in that bed, next to a girl I deeply admired and her boyfriend who I had a crush on (and who, I might add, I wound up losing my virginity to, years later, but that’s a different story), and… I farted.

Correction – I BLASTED.

Yes, gentle readers. It was bad.

But remember how, three paragraphs ago, I wrote it was “one” of the loudest farts I ever did? Implying, there was another…

Cut to: years later, in Madrid, Spain. I’m in a club with my friend Tatiana, high on horribly potent European hash and drunk on whiskey cokas. I’m sitting behind the DJ booth glass, because Tatiana and I are “in” with the DJ, whose name escapes me, but whose penis may have ended up on one of our rolls of film.

What do you think happened?

I farted. But not a regular fart, the kind that happened most days, because at that point in my young life I was suffering from a terrible bout of lactose intolerance.

Poor Tatiana (my roommate at the time).

No, this fart was not just a lactose intolerant fart. Nor was it a mere ‘club kid-high-on-hashish’ fart.

It was a magical fart.

Because, just moments prior, I was falling down the rabbit hole of being too high and too drunk; I was spinning, I was unable to talk or communicate, and I was very close to passing out/throwing up/needing to check into a hospital for alcohol and possible hashish blood poisoning.

Through my pounding head and with my blurred vision, I could see Tatiana’s face, worried, concerned; she tried to ask if I was okay but I could not respond….

Until…

I farted.

And then – everything was okay in the world. Seriously. The spinning was gone, the wooziness disappeared, my drunken high throwupiness vanished, and my teetering on the abyss of a blackout had evaporated. I was back in the game!

Tatiana was there – and she will attest to the fact that not only was this fart magical, but it also could have won the Guinness Book of World Records in fart volume – we heard it loud and clear, trumpeting above and beyond the distant chimes of the otherwise floor-shakingly loud discotheque music and thumping bass line.

So you see, dear readers, farts come in all shapes, sizes, and volumes.

Every Friday, I will post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memories, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

I have 2 other kids, mind you, and they also breastfed until about one and a half years. But the Baby (her name, for the sake of this public arena) is already 22 months, and the other 2 never came CLOSE to the kind of nipple and breast obsession she has.

Actually, it’s wrong to call it an obsession. More like, “possession.” Because yes, Baby loves my boobs, but more than that – she owns them. They are hers. She’s not even threatened when Husband moves in once in a while to show her she’s not the only one who is allowed to touch Mommy’s boobs. She knows what a sucker my husband is for her – she’s got him wrapped around her little pinky finger; he’d never step over the line to challenge her for total ownership. He’s happy to share that toy.

It’s particularly challenging when I breastfeed her each morning right when she wakes up, usually around 6am. (7 days a week, for 6 years, by the way. All my kids are Bright and Early Morning Wake Up Kids. Until motherhood, you couldn’t roll me out of bed until 8, and that was only on a workday.) Anyway, each AM, I take her quickly from the room she shares with her 2 older sibs, trying to keep them asleep as long as possible (Almost never works. My husband leaves each day around 6:30am so lucky thing Dora, that little rascally Explorer, is such an excellent babysitter.)

Anyhoo, so I’ll be on my side in bed, back shoved against a pillow so I won’t roll over, a pillow shoved behind her back so she won’t roll out of bed, and one arm of mine gets pinned beneath me. She’ll start to breastfeed, eyes deceptively closed. I will close my eyes, with the ever-fruitless hope that this time she’ll leave me alone and let me go back to sleep for another precious 15 minutes or so.

I quickly swipe her hand away with my one free hand, then cover my nipple protectively. Her hand slides over and bats at my hand a few times, those tiny little finger muscles surprisingly deft and strong. But I am stronger, and I maintain position.

Until… her hand slides down my stomach and reaches my bellybutton, which is always uncovered because of the necessity of lifting my shirt to offer her the one boob to drink from. Once landed, her fingers immediately start to dig and diddle my belly button.

I hate that feeling. I move my free hand down quickly to bat her hand away. She moves hers up and grabs my nipple. I swipe it away only to have left my belly button wide open. Shit! She’s launched the offensive, once again, successfully. Darn those nimble fingers, blast those silky smooth palms that belie their evil agenda!

When I carry her around during the day, especially when I pick her up after not having held her for a while, Baby immediately shoves her hand down the front of my shirt and grabs my nipple. I take her hand out, tell her I don’t like it. She laughs and shoves it back down.

I think about the fact that – thanks to her breastfeeding, & the milk I produce for her – my tiny boobs are still somewhat inflated. Does that give her the right of ownership? I started out young adulthood with small, perky boobs. Now, after 3 breastfeeding kids? Take out the “perky” and underline “small”. You get the idea.

Marla Maples once told me that her boobs were not even half the magnificent breasts they once were thanks to the three years she breastfed her daughter Tiffany. (Don’t judge – Tiffany is such an amazing teenager we should probably all start a campaign to have every kid breastfed for 3 years. Or at least to have Marla as a mom and The Donald as a dad.) I was impressed that Marla never got them “done” like many of my beautiful friends have, after having a few kids. PS, I know a few mommies who got tummy tucks… Now that sounds like a good idea to me. If only it didn’t involve surgery, pain, cutting into my skin, blood, painful recovery, etc…

I’m such a wuss.

So, Chester, I mean Baby, you know, my little Molester… I guess I’ll just have to deal with her roving hands and diddling, pinching fingers. With the nail marks. And the heebie jeebies.

At least SHE thinks my boobs are beautiful. Maybe that’s why I put up with it.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

PS – UPDATE: Esther hasn’t nursed for 6 months as I post this for Flashback Friday (yeah, I’ve dropped the anonymity, too, since my earlier posts) but girlfriend still stages the occasional sneak attack, just to keep me on my toes.

Even at one day old I can tell she's eyeing my boobs.... ready to attack!

This Blog was written in response to an “Open Call” on opensalon.com which called for writers to contact their old bullies, you know, through Facebook or Twitter or Ye Olde Bully Hotlyne, and interview them.

This was my entry:

I reached out to Mary over Facebook recently. I messaged her in a charming, “I’m over it, let’s move on,” kind of a way. Of course she accepted my friend request, because she’s a professional singer and she needs the fans. But did she deign to respond to my message? Did she apologize for the years she tortured me in elementary school? Did she even acknowledge the anguish she and her goons caused me, so many moons ago?

No. She did not.

It is possible I am still holding a grudge.

Can you blame me? Mary is the primary reason why I got the hell out of Lafayette Elementary School the first chance I got. Oh, there were other reasons too, like the constant head lice, the sub-standard education (my fourth grade teacher once spelled ‘house’ “howse” on our blackboard), the large classes, and – oh yeah, the anti-Semitism…

(My mother insists that my 4th grade crush, Chris Q, once called me a “Kike,” but I’ll never believe her. How could he have done so?? He was so tall and cute, and his eyes were so blue!!)

But I was smart, and I would have been able to thrive with head lice in a large class taught by a stupid teacher while nursing a Hitler Youth crush.

But the bullying – that got to me.

Mary was the worst. Mary was in 6th grade when I was in 4th. She had the best (and loudest) singing voice in the school, and would always get cast as the lead in every musical. She was popular, pretty, and for some reason, she didn’t like me. She used to run after me with her girlfriends in close second position.

When they caught me, they’d call me names, tease me, and pull up my skirt or down, depending on the waistline (elastic or buttoned/zipped – you other bullied kids know what I’m talking about). I think she used to slap me and give me wedgies too, but lucky for me, my memory is awesome at erasing experiences with extreme pain and suffering, so who really knows.

Mary teased me because I was too tall, too skinny, too geeky, or maybe just because I cared too much about being liked. When I would cry to the guidance counselor, Mary would rush over and interrupt us, then proceed to argue very convincingly that I had instigated the whole thing, that I had been teasing and taunting them, that I was to blame.

Ugh. It’s not just in the movies where the teachers so dumb they don’t know which kid to believe.

Lucky for my self-esteem, my parents decided (and were financially able) to take me out of the DC public school system forever (which at the time was lorded over by our crack-smoking mayor Marion Barry, who did little between his hooker visits in lockup to avert the several drive-by shootings on and around our campus), and bring me to a private school where I could start over and reinvent myself.

Lucky for Mary, she grew up to be a semi-famous singer who wrote an off-Broadway play about head lice, starring an Academy Award winning actor.

Head lice. Some people are SO stuck in the past.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Screaming fans at one of Mary's concerts. But would they be so ecstatic to know she used to torture little girls two years young than her? Sadly... yes, they probably would be.

Every Christmas, my Jewish mother lines her staircases with toddler-size Nutcrackers. Soft Christmas music pipes in through the speakers, Snow white reindeer fight with pinecone candles and holly for position, and a tree the size of the Hulk stands tall, adorned with ornaments spanning four decades.

The ‘decoration’ aspect of Christmas at my mother’s house may be getting a little out of control. Each year there are more and more giant Nutcrackers, more holly, more stockings, more cranberries… and last year, two additional Christmas trees popped up, each decorated, one in front of the guest house and one at the end of the driveway.

Don’t forget, gentle readers, we’re Jewish.

But there are grandkids to impress, by golly! They must be dazzled by candy canes, wowed by exploding stockings that magically fill the night before Christmas, and passionate about leaving Santa the perfect amount of cookies and milk – and his reindeer carrots – so Santa and his crew will have enough stamina to hit the rest of the world’s children before sunup.

Never mind that my kids are… uh… very Jewish. As in, they speak Hebrew with their Israeli dad (my husband, who, by the way, I have trained to absolutely love Christmas, too – to the degree that now, every Christmas, he constantly berates me, telling me I’m too stingy with gifts and we need to get more, more, MORE for everyone!).

My kids go to a (Spiritual, Kabbalah, but still,) Jewish school. They listen to the Torah every Saturday, don’t touch electricity every Shabbat and holiday, eat Kosher, and generally are not accustomed to hearing anything about Christmas or Santa Claus outside of every single cartoon that is played in the months of November and December and… my family.

My son’s friends have ‘set him straight’ a number of times about Santa, but he’s not stupid. Last year, he reasoned to me, “Ima!” (Yep, we’re that Jewish; he calls me the Hebrew word for ‘Mom’) – “I’ve figured out why no one thinks that Santa is real!”

“Really?” I asked, curious where this was going. “Why?”

“Because he’s in Maryland!”

Maryland is where my mother lives.

Where, every Christmastime, the toddler Nutcrackers march up the stairs to take their post opposite the banner, the countless mini Nutcrackers cover any -gasp! – bare spot that doesn’t already boast a Christmas tchotchke, the three Christmas trees live, the sixteen or so stockings hang (2 for their 2 dogs, 1 for each child, spouse, grandchild, stepchild, etc, etc…), the Christmas cards are strung – on a string from the rafters, of course, the carols are sung and played over the sound system, and a snow machine pumps fake snow on top of glittery crystal snowflakes that hang from the ceiling…

Okay, that last part may not be entirely true.

Yet.

c/xo,

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

You didn't think I was lying, did you?

I have so many other good ones but I’ll just leave you with this:

White reindeer, cranberries, a stocking and a snowy owl. Couldn't make this stuff up if I worked for Hallmark!

You know those liberals who want to make America into a socialist country nanny state and by the way, they hate Christmas?

Yeah. That’s not me.

I love Christmas.

LOOOOOOOOOVVVVVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Christmas.

True, I could be compared to a “Modern Orthodox” Jew (one of the countless religious terms I can’t stand to be applied to me) in the way I ‘keep’ Shabbat, eat Kosher, and ‘observe’ the millions of Jewish holidays. On the other hand, I pretty much beat out every Christian kid, from my YMCA Camp Seafarer (four years in a row) to my all-Christian-kids-but-me elementary school in terms of sheer volume of Christmas gifts received as a child.

In Camp Seafarer, my counselor used to put us to bed by gathering us into a circle, and asking us to repeat after her, “Thank you Lord for our family, our friends, our counselors and campers, in Jesus Christ our lord’s name, Amen.”

And I’d be all, ‘in Jesus Christ whose lord’s name?’

But I was just like that silently, because I never really liked to rock the boat. Unless you count mooning passersby on our annual Seafarer trip into the tiny town of Moorhead, but that was just girly fun, not provoking the religious establishment, you know?

Plus, both of my (Jewish) parents had divorced and remarried Christian(-ish) spouses, so I was sort of step-Christian. Plus,we celebrated Christmas! And Easter. Not the Jesus part, but the Santa and the bunny parts. The stockings and presents parts. The chocolate bunny and egg-hunting parts.

So yeah, growing up, I received more extravagant Christmas presents than any Christian kid I knew. I wrote about The Wedding Dress, yes, but I also got a drum set when I was fifteen and a CAR when I was sixteen. Being Jewish and celebrating Christmas was the BEST, because we never had to mess with any of the ‘feel bad that Jesus died’ stuff or whatever it is Christians actually focus on during Christmas, and we could get right to the business of the presents.

Add one divorce and two guilty Jewish parents to the mix, and, viola! Equalled two Christmases and two Channukahs, every year, for me and my siblings.

Every Friday, I will post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memories, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

BTW if you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below. Then once you’ve listened, scroll down to the bottom of this page and listen to my song. It’s groovy.

Recently a girl I consider to be one of my closest friends said to me, “You let yourself get hurt by your best friends, don’t you?”

And I felt a little stunned. And defensive.

But instead of asking her if she gets hurt by her closest girlfriends, or just ignoring the question and changing the subject, or just giving a little stupid meaningless answer and moving on… Sigh. I launched into a 5 minute soliloquy of the Lifetime story of me getting burned, hurt and abandoned by some of my best girlfriends over the course of my entire life, starting from 2nd grade, onto 5th grade, 6th, 7th, then high school, then my 20′s.

It only really stopped, according to me, telling this to my friend, once I was in a marriage-like relationship (4 years living together) and then again when I was married for real. Nobody hurts me now! I declared. Because I just don’t let anyone get as close to me as my husband.

Have husband, have armor!

And yet… Husband lets me down, as often as whatever (see prior/future blogs), so is that really the answer for me? A: Shouldn’t I be able to have close girlfriends too, who never burn me? Or, B: Do I give my heart and my trust too freely? Or, C: Do I simply want other people’s attention too desperately?

Or do I just fucking talk too much?

(You are not allowed to choose “E. All of the above” because then I’d just have to slap myself.)

In this same conversation with my friend, I admitted to her that I have a weak, mushy side that is too needy, and no surprise here, it took me about 5-7 minutes (of weak, mushy talk) to explain it to her. She agreed, observing that I am “very open” (vs. her, who is often accused of being cold or closed). In order to say – something – I agreed with her observation, openly telling her that I am open with everyone, I let them in, I grow attached, and then yes, I get hurt when they do something that disappoints me.

I reduced myself from a strong, thoughtful, charismatic and caring adult back into a needy, vulnerable 6th grader.

I feel fantastic.

Or – truth be told – I feel violent.

I’m pissed I opened up like that to her. I’m pissed I still have that needy, mushy piece of a personality inside of me.

I’m pissed she saw it, and I’m pissed I have it.

I want to be strong and confident with a thick skin.

And yet… I don’t like that cold, closed aspect of my friend’s personality. It’s off-putting.

I think one of the reasons I’m so open with her & with people like her, is that I want to make them feel loved and comfortable and safe enough so that they too can start to open up and shed their guarded façades. It generally works, endearing me to her type, so I have many of these types of “close girlfriends”.

Is it such a shock that sometimes, over time…

They dump me?

Fuck ‘em.

c/xo

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

PS. Re-reading this blog for Flashback Friday, I realize what a potty mouth I had “back then!” So embarrassing. But hey, I’m not going to censor – that was the real me. Now, of course, I’m perfect.

PPS! Here’s a song I wrote for ya… listen & enjoy (click that tiny arrow on the left, don’t ask me, I didn’t design the thing – you figure it out!) c/xo